


A Different Kind of Torture

by 13atoms (2Atoms)



Category: The Great (TV 2020)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Non-graphic torture references, That's not how head injuries work, post-episode 9
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:00:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24813466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2Atoms/pseuds/13atoms
Summary: After the whole court is tortured, Orlo tries to come to terms with the injuries sustained by his lover.
Relationships: Count Orlo x Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 32





	1. Chapter 1

You had been relieved, for the sake of the man and the coup, that Orlo was spared from torture. You were sure he would’ve cracked at the sound of shackles snapping closed around his wrists, let alone any actual pain. He was a strong man in many ways, but enduring torture would not have suited him.

Not to say his role wasn’t a small torture in itself. Part of you cursed him, for calling your name and abruptly fleeing the room. Perhaps no one had noticed his departure as anything unusual, you certainly hoped they hadn’t, but his support would have been appreciated.

He had been your rock through all this, the one to convince you to join Catherine, the one who held you while you cried from the stress of it all. Under the nose of the court, he’d seduced you, showed incredible bravery when he came back from the front and told you – still battered and bruised – his gestures towards you were not those of a mere friend.

He wanted you.

Even so, he’d abandoned you. Your mind drifted from your body as you made your way through the horrific carousel of torture methods, never glancing to Orlo’s seat to check if he’d returned. The sting of pain at seeing it empty every time was an additional agony you didn’t need. The culmination of your ordeal was the fucking brick, striking you in the temple.

You crumpled on the spot.

*

Perhaps, with scheduling you a later session, Orlo had hoped your torturers might have grown tired. He couldn’t stand to watch, leaving for fear of putting you in more danger if he reacted. Part of his departure was pure and simple cowardice. He couldn’t stomach the torture.

If he had hoped to avoid seeing you in pain, he had made a grave error. Dashing back from the bathroom he had hidden in, hoping he had timed his return correctly and you might be free from torture already, he caught sight of Leo, struggling to carry your body bridal style.

Leo was bloodied, barely bandaged from the meagre supplies the helpers could find, and paled with worry and anger. You looked so limp in his arms, you could have been a ragdoll.

Orlo checked for anyone who should not be watching before rushing to Leo, gasping at the gash on your head, the red marks marring your face. He was aware of Leo’s glare, and he struggled to stomach the blood, the unnatural pallor you had taken on.

“They had planned to leave her on the floor. To be trampled. Catherine sent me to get her.”

His tone was curt. Hiding fury.

A stab of guilt made Orlo’s face crumple, and he panicked, his worry for himself completely gone. With a featherlight touch, he felt the stickiness of congealing blood on your forehead, relieved to note no breaking of your skull, but terrified by stillness of your face. With a hand, he felt for your pulse.

“She’s alive, you prick.”

“Take her to my rooms.”

“She needs a doctor!”

“Send the doctor to my rooms, then. And stay with her.”

“You do _not_ tell me what to do.”

In physical agony, exhausted, emotionally wrecked, Leo’s pain couldn’t have been more obvious.

Were it not for your suffering, the Count might have been more sympathetic to his plight.

“I need to get back,” Orlo begged. “Please.”

With a groan and a nod, Leo continued walking away from the hall, and Orlo took a deep breath, trying to empty his mind.

Screams, sounds of tearing flesh, shouts of torturers, all leaked each time the door to the room swung open, a new round of limping, bleeding bodies glaring at him as they left.

To them, he was a Hermes of agony and torment.

Orlo tried to ignore their distain, hoping they might one day learn how misplaced their fury was. Anger at the Emperor swelled inside him, even as he obeyed the man’s bidding, scurrying back to call the next batch of names. Although his voice was steady, it was impossible for Orlo to conceal the tears which began to gather in his eyes.

*

You suspected you would have been disoriented no matter where you awoke but being in Orlo’s bed was a little startling. A doctor you didn’t recognise stood over you, asking questions and poking at the aching spot on your head with a metal instrument you didn’t like the look of.

For a second you closed your eyes, and when you opened them, the room was empty.

The world blurred and tilted as you opened your eyes, and you stood too quickly, holding onto the bed post as you fought to catch your balance. Nausea hit you, and you had to lean over to avoid throwing up. With no idea how long you had been asleep or the full extent of your injuries, you stumbled to the closed curtains, noting it was dark outside. The small mirror on the dresser was your next goal, and your skirts made you risk falling as you moved clumsily.

Blood, reddened skin, burned lines, was the first thing you saw. It was hard to make out, but you persisted, the candlelight further obstructing your dazed, sleepy mission.

That was where Orlo found you, stumbling as you held on to his dresser, trying to figure out the damage to your face through blurry eyes as sleep threatened to take you.

“Fuck me, you need to lie down.” He lunged to take your elbow as your balance faltered, pulling you back to the bed.

You hissed at the pain of being manoeuvred, unsure why you were hurting but knowing it _fucking hurt_.

“I’m sorry,” Orlo mumbled.

He repeated it over and over, like a man possessed, and you realised he was no longer apologising for being rough helping you back to bed. Pulling your hair from the wound on your forehead, touching the eel burns on your face, you realised he was crying.

“Is it that horrific?” you choked out, jaw aching as you spoke.

“Painful, for you. That is my bigger concern.”

Your thoughts were foggy, and you struggled to pin them down for any length of time, but you suddenly realised:

“What happened to you?”

“I’m fine.”

“Why? Orlo did you–”

“No. No, I… they found the supposed culprit, before my turn.”

“Lucky you.”

You struggled to follow the story he was telling, knowing you would need to hear it again when your head recovered. You had to have faith that it would recover.

“What time is it?”

“Around an hour before dinner. It might be prudent to have something sent here, though. For you to eat. I’ll have to go, but I think you should recover here.”

Frowning caused you to screw your eyes closed as a jolt of pain shot through your head, and you felt Orlo moving on the bed, hands moving uselessly to try and help.

“Stop moving –”

“You left me. Earlier.”

The day was overwhelming. You were fucking exhausted, and you couldn’t begin to process the repercussions of these injuries. Your throat tightened, and tears finally came, your eyesight still impaired by the head wound as you tried to glare at Orlo. Tracing back your recent memories, you caught on the last thought you had before the torment started.

“You didn’t even have to endure torture, but you left me.”

He didn’t reply, instead leaving the bed. You wished you had the emotion in you left to yell at him, or the strength to chase him down, but you had to just lay there, crying.

You had never felt weaker in front of him, not in the bleakest moments, or when you feared Catherine’s plans would cost you your life. His absence worsened your sadness, your desperation, with you completely unable to reach him for comfort. Muffled steps announced his return to the bed, and you felt a cloth soaked in warm water against your forehead, the drips snaking down your face as he soaked and wiped the blood dried there.

“Orlo…”

“I’m sorry,” he choked. “I just… I would have told them everything if I had seen you being tortured.”

You stayed silent, wincing as he cleaned your face.

“I know its weak. I know. Catherine told me to leave. I couldn’t save you, and I would have tried…”

Water dripped through your eyebrow, and you closed your eye as he continued to dab at your temple. He gently wiped the moisture away from where it pool on your eyelid, and his face was inches from yours as he worked.

“It really hurts.”

“I know, love.”

Orlo kept his mouth shut as he focussed on your face, applying a cream the doctor must have left. You had been too out of it to notice, but he seemed to know what to do.

“Where else?”

The most painful part of your body was hard to pinpoint. You knew your face had bourne a significant brunt of the damage. You held your hands up next, and he settled them on your torso as he worked, wincing at the damage done.

“How badly did they ruin my face?”

“You will recover.” He told you firmly, unable to substantiate his claims. “Even if there’s a scar, I think you’ll wear it well.”

You sighed, acutely aware of how beauty bought power in this place. Your heart went out to everyone else who had unknowing suffered for your cause.

“Did anyone die, from the ordeal?”

“One man.”

The tightness in Orlo’s voice told you he had no further desire to discuss it.

“Peter. He’s a fucking bastard. I swear, if it’s the last thing I do, I will see him dead after this.”

You nodded absently, the wooziness which had never really left you turning to sleepiness. Orlo tutted for you to stay awake.

“Where else?”

You shrugged, fingers moving to start untying your corset before sharp pain stopped you. Count Orlo took up the mantle, checking over your entire skin for injuries.

Every piece of clothing he removed revealed new damage, a new burn, or bruise, or cut. By the time the reminder for dinner came, you were certain you could not go anywhere but to sleep. Aided by him into dressing in a thin nightgown, you let yourself fall asleep on top of Orlo’s bed.

Movement awoke you hours later, and you realised you were being tucked under the covers. Orlo had joined you in bed, and your body ached as he pulled you in to him.

Regretfully, you complained, pushing him away again.

“I was scared you might not wake up.” he confessed, “So much so that I might have woken you on purpose.”

“That’s okay.”

“How was dinner?”

“I’ve been to worse. Catherine made a rousing speech. I think she might be gaining traction.”

You were surprised to find that you didn’t care. Not anymore. You closed your eyes against the dark, shuffling painfully so your back faced him.

“Leo asked after you,” he added. You felt the mattress move as he shuffled to get comfortable.

“Yeah?”

“Told me I was a bastard for leaving when you were… in there.”

“You were. A bit.”

Orlo’s self-flagellation would undoubtedly last months, but you were running low on sympathy. Your own suffering was so great compared to his, you didn’t tell him you forgave him. Eventually, you planned to. But not that night.

“I think I might know why I couldn’t face seeing you in pain, now.”

“Hm?”

“I love you.”

You hummed, and let the pressure in your skull overtake you once more, the pounding of your temple pulling you to a dark, inescapable sleep.

Distantly, you heard his voice.

“I love you. Can you hear me?”


	2. Chapter 2

“Please, wake up! Can you hear me?”

You could feel Orlo grabbing at your shoulders, but sleep felt to inevitable, you didn’t fight it.

Dreamlessly, you were unaware of the panic you were causing, the frantic Count running through the sleeping palace to fetch someone, _anyone_ , who could tell him what was wrong with you. Waving him away, the doctors all told him to ‘just wait’. That there was no guarantee of what could happen next with a head injury.

The rest of the palace were nursing torn flesh and similar injuries, trying to set their noses right and heal their poker-burns. They had no time for something so unpredictable. There were wounds to stitch.

To a man who liked to know everything, ignorance ached. It made him pace and pick at his nails, and most of all, obsessively refuse to leave your side.

Your hours of unthinking, inescapable blackness were interrupted by the sound of voices, of the sickeningly strange sensation of being trapped inside a body you had no control over.

Dazed, you came to inside your own mind. The voices in the room seemed halfway through their conversation, and you tried to tune in, pushing away the fuzziness and the comfort of sleep which tried to grasp at your consciousness.

You felt an entire world away, trapped somewhere between life and death.

“Orlo…” Catherine’s gentle tone reached your ears.

He clearly thought him mad, was trying to be gentle on him.

“Orlo, she can’t hear you.”

Catherine’s voice was from across the room, but Orlo’s could not have been closer. He was sat in the bed with you.

“This is your fault.” He snapped back. “You told me to fucking _leave her_. You didn’t stop this.”

“It is no one’s _fault_.”

Marial’s voice was unmistakable, although you were surprised to hear it a little less sharp than usual today.

“It is no one’s fault but Peter’s.”

A silence fell across the room, and you wished you could open your eyes, greet them all and break the tension.

“I am sorry for your loss, I really am. But are we really safe to meet here?” The barking voice of Velementov was startling.

You hadn’t expected his presence. It must have meant a whole coup meeting was happening. You longed to join in, for once.

“She is not _dead_!”

The break in his voice made you ache to comfort him. To be by his side in mind, as well as body. As you were unable to pilot your own body, you were glad Orlo was protecting you so devotedly.

This was the first of your involvement with each other that Velementov and Marial had heard – you wished you’d told them under better circumstances, while you had the chance.

“We will meet here until she’s better.”

Orlo’s voice was met with silence. You could imagine the pitying looks.

You let yourself fall away from them, back into the darkness as they started to talk. Before you woke again, a whole day had passed.

*

Even in front of the visiting doctors, Orlo wouldn’t move from your side. You wanted to tell him to go and eat, to do his job, but he barely left for longer than a minute. His returning footsteps were always quick, like he was running.

“If this persists more than 3 days, she will die of dehydration,” a jovial doctor had informed him. “Consider finding a new woman.”

The voice was uncaring, and you wondered if it was the same stranger as before. You didn’t remember his voice well enough to tell. After some distant arguing, he quickly gone.

“No one else, I promise.” Orlo whispered to you.

You could tell Orlo didn’t trust the doctors, didn’t trust anyone. He was like a guard dog, barking at anyone who got too close.

“You’ll be okay,” he mumbled, his hand finding the pulse in your neck. It was a nervous habit now, he did it often.

A safety blanket, perhaps. Reminding himself your heart was still beating and your body was still warm.

You didn’t hear anything for hours at a time, darkness taking you and making time skip, as though measured with clock short of a cog.

In moments of lucidness, you could catch Orlo lifting you to sit, trying to force you to drink water. It burned, made you want to splutter and reject it from your body.

He muttered apologies, over and over again, an obsessive mantra. This time, you wanted to cry at his new rendition.

“I love you, I’m sorry.”

*

By the break of the second dawn you spent trapped by stillness, Orlo was sobbing. He’d woken you through the night, checking on you, trying to make you drink.

“Please,” he’d whispered, touching sips of water to your parched lips.

He was desperate to avoid the death by dehydration which your doctor has predicted. He had refused sleep in favour of constantly checking your skin for the signs of life he clung to, keeping you warm with his own body heat, applying salve to the injuries he could reach without jostling or exposing you.

Suddenly, you found yourself gulping down the sips of water. It stopped you from choking, and even as you were barely conscious, the twitch of your muscles felt _good_. Orlo startled as he cradled your neck, tilting the glass from your lips to check if he’d imagined the movement.

Finally the outlook for you looked less bleak. He called for a doctor the moment he caught the movement, and you could feel the hope surging off him.

You hoped it wasn’t misguided.

“I know you’re in there. You’re going to be okay. I promise,” he muttered to you.

His mumbling stopped when the doctor finally made his presence known. The man seemed less surprised, no doubt irritated by the speed he’d been rushed to Orlo’s apartments for something so mundane as the drinking of a hysterical _woman_. The rest of the palace must still be recovering from their ordeals, and you imagined the man would be rushed off his feet.

“It’s possibly a good sign. Could just be muscle spasms as the heart slows, but perhaps the brain is recovering itself.”

With that, he was gone. Rushed off to another patient.

And Orlo hugged you to him, and for the first time you could feel your body more intensely, the pain of your injuries being manoeuvred by his arms, and the warmth of his body, the shake in his hands as he held you. You wanted to wipe his tears as he cried into your shoulder, but your hands simply wouldn’t obey you. They felt heavy like rock, uncontrolled by your muscles. Orlo inspected the injuries to your fingers for the hundredth time, crying to himself.

Frustrated that you still couldn’t move, and desperate for something to eat, total deep sleep finally started to evade you. The agony of being trapped inside and limp body was exacerbated by your sleeplessness. All that soothed you, was that you began to realise how dedicated your lover was.

Being awake instead of simply drifting out of consciousness, you learnt how Orlo had been talking to you all day, reading to you when he ran out of things to say, chattering aloud about nothing and everything.

The hours were filled by his voice, sometimes from the chair beside his bed, sometimes right in your ear, as he fidgeted, never straying more than an arm’s length from you.

Presently, he was reading to you from a book found beside his bed, making asides where you usually might have asked for word definitions or expected a comment from him. It almost made things feel normal, aside from the fact you couldn’t follow the words on the page. He was beside you, and you noted you could feel the day his weight sank the mattress. That was progress.

His voice quietened abruptly when you heard the door open, his servant interrupting with a message.

“The Emperor requests your presence.”

Orlo didn’t move, still curled in bed to be close to your side. 

“If Peter wants to see me, he can come here.”

“Sir…”

“Tell him exactly those words, Alek.”

You felt your stomach sink. This was a bad idea, and you wished Marial or Catherine were here to talk him out of it. He kept reading.

To your dismay, Peter did exactly as Orlo asked, announcing his presence with a tasteful:

“Morning, Orlo. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

Silence. Easily enough, your mind filled it. How the room looked, how Orlo looked, the Emperor peering down at him with distain.

You had been imagining the horror of the scene every time a friend or a reputable member of the palace came in. Seeing Orlo, dishevelled and face puffy from tears, desperately clinging to your body. From the comments you had heard, from the sympathetic whispers for the brief seconds servants were in the room and Orlo was not, you knew you must look like death.

Peter only confirmed it.

“Throw her in the ground and have done with it,” he sniffed.

You could hear him pacing, getting closer to you before moving away again. It was putting Orlo on edge.

“There is still breath in her breast, and she is recovering.”

Peter laughed.

You felt an unfamiliar hand press to your exposed neck, and just as quickly sensed movement as Orlo batted it away. You wanted to cry. He was playing with fire, it would be safer to just let The Emperor have his fun. He was teasing Orlo on purpose, winding him up to see how he growled and protected you, making Peter giggle.

Like a cruel schoolboy poking at a wounded, feral animal.

“That’s sweet, Orlo,” he mocked.

“Don’t touch her, please.”

For a moment there was silence, and you could imagine the unease between the two men, the very air in the room crackling with tension, ready to snap.

Peter broke first.

“God, it is a surprise to see your bed actually used.” he tutted. “Trust you to fall for the first woman who’ll let you rut into her. Her face is fucked now, anyway.”

Peter hissed through his teeth.

Your stomach sank. Of course Orlo had lied about the extent of the damage. You cursed him and felt a strange surge of affection simultaneously.

“Did you have something to ask me, Emperor?”

“Oh! Right. The reason I’m… here. I just wanted to enquire after your absence. At the job, which you might recall… I pay you to do. Maybe. Do I pay you, Orlo?”

Peter’s voice dripped with a mocking distain, balancing on the sharp knife edge between joking and truly dangerous.

“You do, sir.”

“I see. And you have decided to fail to do the job I pay you for?”

“I need a few days off,” his voice lowered, the fight gone from it. “Please. To be here.”

“It’s funny,” Peter mused, “that you, as my advisor, feel entitled to time off. When I have to be Emperor every hour of my fucking life.”

“I’m sorry I just – ”

“You see Orlo, if I were to take time off to sit next to a half-dead corpse in bed, Russia would go to _shit._ Yet you seem to believe that to be a reasonable use of your day.”

You longed to squeeze Orlo’s hand, tell him to back down, that you didn’t mind. This mania, this obsession, with never leaving you… it would have the pair of you dead.

“Give me two days, I beg of you.”

“Well alright, since I hate your face when you’re blubbering, and your crying is absolutely pathetic behaviour worthy only of a complete and utter pussy, you may have the rest of the day off.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Peter hadn’t been lying, you could hear the sobs, the weakness of Orlo’s voice. Your heart broke for him, knowing he had put a decade of repute on the line because of his guilt.

You regretted not forgiving him while you could. That you hadn’t told him how much you loved him first. That he might go to the grave, long after you, never knowing.

The door slammed as Peter stormed out.

“I will stay as long as you need me. To make up for being such a fucking _coward_ ,” Orlo whispered to you, as though the Emperor might still be listening. “I promise you.”

He managed to make it through the next few pages of the book, sans asides or comments, and you could hear the shake in his voice. Peter had burst his bubble, his little space where he could pretend all he had to do was sit by your side. Where the danger which had caused your injury wasn’t still looming.

Minutes later the door slamming open once more interrupting Orlo’s shaky reading, and you were glad. 

“Fuck, Orlo.”

Marial.

You could hear Catherine fussing too, but her servant spoke over her.

“Christ, you need a bath. And you’re still in your fucking sleepwear.”

Mentally, you groaned. Of course, he had forgotten to look after himself. Your blurry last vision of him was stained with your blood. Left over from when he’d changed into nightclothes two nights before.

“I need to stay…” he was stuttering, clinging on to you like they were trying to take you.

“There’s blood on you.”

Catherine took charge.

“Go and change. You’re not even dressed. Alek? Help the Count.”

He held you, still, ignoring her.

“Orlo…”

After a slight scuffle, he was gone.

It was strange, being trapped there. The instinct to stand from politeness or to smile and say hello to Catherine and Marial was completely quashed by your immobility. You just _couldn’t._

Your thoughts still came a little dazed, mainly centred to what you could feel, but you were beginning to be able to process more. The pain in your head had subsided significantly. Following Marial and Catherine’s conversation became far easier than the snippets of meeting you had been able to understand a few days ago.

“Do you think he’s lost it?” Marial asked.

“I would be rather unfortunate if he had. Peter’s furious, he’ll need an apology by tomorrow.”

“I never imagined him caring particularly for anyone,” Marial mused, walking closer to you.

You felt tugging on the sheets which covered you as she straightened them out.

“I confess was a little surprised when Orlo told me.”

“Of course you knew about this,” Marial groaned.

“Knew about what?” the Count’s voice called, interrupting the two women.

Already, Orlo was back. You couldn’t believe how little time he was gone.

“Nothing.”

The bed beside you shifted, and he was beside you once more, his fingers interweaving with yours. You felt as though you might be able to squeeze his hand, if you tried hard enough. Concentrating, you tried, softly groaning when you couldn’t move.

“Did you hear that?”

Orlo sounded panicked, and you imagined Marial’s eye roll.

“She definitely made a noise.”

“Orlo…”

Catherine’s tone worried you. It was pity.

“I’m certain I heard her. Listen.”

You wanted to move again, to speak, but your throat still felt seized up. It was like your muscles were held in place by thin planes of glass, and you couldn’t quite break through.

“Has the doctor suggested bloodletting? To reduce the pressure on the head?” Catherine talked as though she was discussing the blooms in the garden, and you were grateful for her normalcy.

But also, you were certain she thought the Count to be mad.

“I… he did mention it. But was too busy to do it, and I…”

Orlo stammered, and you felt the bed sink beside you, as Catherine sat. The Count’s grip on you tightened a little, minutely moving you towards his side.

“You didn’t want to hurt her.” Catherine said, coolly.

“She’s already had so many cuts, lost enough blood. I couldn’t bear to make another scar.”

“It’s okay. You should follow the doctor’s advice, though.”

His hand gripped yours tighter.

“I can’t…”

“I can do it. Do you have a knife?”

He did. It was in his desk. He’d even shown it to you one day, god forbid you ever needed it.

“No.”

“A letter opener, perhaps?” Marial suggested.

Orlo called for his servant, and you heard the exchange. Soon enough, Catherine had a knife.

“We should wait…” Orlo began. “It seems wrong.”

“Look away if you want.”

It was hard to escape the feeling of being a toy, fought over and pulled around. Orlo pulled you into him protectively, as Catherine lifted your arm. Every muscle in your body wanted to pull away from her, to shout stop.

The blade found it’s mark on your skin, leaving a thin line of pain on your before Catherine had even pressed in. As she raised it, panic overtook you. You felt Orlo’s flinch, his gasp, how his hand crushed yours in it.

“No!”

The movement was weak, but you pulled your arm from Catherine’s, your eyes snapping open. Your vision was blurry, but you could make out the pink of her dress, the glint of the blade as she raised it from you.

“Oh my god.”

You had never been more grateful to see the fuzzy outline of Marial, as she dashed towards you. Unsure what to do, you tried to sit, dizziness making you curl up.

“Can you..?”

Orlo’s voice sounded starved for oxygen, and you tuned into it as you screwed your eyes shut again, focusing on trying to stop the spinning of the room.

“Of course.”

Catherine and Marial left quickly.

You tried to croak Orlo’s name, head pounding once again.

“Shh…”

He reached for a cup of water, and helped you hold it. You drank it in one go.

The world could not have extended beyond the canopy of this bed, and you would still have been giddy to return to it.

“I can’t see properly–” you warned him.

“It doesn’t matter. I believe your eyesight will return, in time.”

Your hands reached for your face, and you felt the cut above your eyebrow, the burn over your cheekbone. Reaching back to your hair, you felt it matted with blood in places, messily braided in others.

Opening your eyes, you could see the outline of his face. You reached for it with one hand, finding his jaw lined with stubble.

“I hope so. I would miss seeing you.”

With a sob, he pulled you into his eyes.

You let him hold you until he had cried himself out, all while you slowly began to move your limbs, feeling your strength weakened, but able to move yourself.

When you sat up to stretch unaided, his blurry, watery smile made your heart clench.

*

Orlo had a bath drawn, and when it was full he let you get up. Terrified of you falling as he guided you to the tub, he clung on to you as much as you clung to him.

He helped you strip off the nightgown before you climbed into the warm water, sinking down with a sigh, glad to get the sweat, blood, and grime off your skin. You dunked your face under immediately, wincing at the pain, but glad to be cleaner.

“Are you okay?”

Sat beside the bath, Orlo seemed convinced you could collapse at any moment. His hands clung to the side of the bath, waiting to grab you.

“I heard Marial, you need a bath too.”

As quickly as he could manage to rid himself of the layers, he was bare, clambering in to the water opposite you.

“Now I really wish I could see properly,” you joked.

He huffed a laugh.

“How bad is it?”

“Fuzzy, mainly. Everything is too bright.”

“I can–”

The water sloshed as he went to move, but you touched a hand to his bent knee, stopping him.

“It’s fine.”

“If you’re sure.”

You washed yourself in silence, appreciating how the water lightened the load on your weak muscles. Orlo had some fruit brought, and you ate as much as you could. Your hunger abated, the pain in your stomach did the same.

Feeling much more yourself, you asked Orlo to wash your hair. Your arms ached too much to do it yourself, and you longed to lay back between his legs, feel him support you as he held your head at the water’s surface, carefully cleaning the blood from your hair and face.

When he was done, he held you there, your back pressed to his front. You lean into him.

“You said you could hear Marial, when you were… asleep.”

“Uh-huh.”

“How much could you hear, the rest of the time?”

You smiled fondly. The memories were a little fuzzy, but they were there.

“Most of it. I drifted in and out of hearing, a little. Thank you for staying with me, though.”

“Of course. I… I’m so sorry that I left you.”

“I’m not sure it would have changed much.”

You inspected your hands, cringing at the damage done to them. It was blurry, but you could see bloodied patches. Gently, Orlo took one of your hands in his, pulling it back below the warm water’s surface.

“Still, I should have been there for you. Tried to protect you.”

“I forgive you.”

Wordlessly he pulled you tighter still against him, arms wrapping around you.

You let him stay like that until the bath grew cold, and the pair of you changed into nightclothes. It was early afternoon, but you were still weak, and Orlo was wrecked.

He hugged you warm while the bed was changed – at his request – and your heart broke a little for how he swayed with exhaustion. Orlo yawned, and you could see how he fought to stay awake. He’d been up for so long, it was a feat he was still so with it.

By habit you moved to take the side of the bed you had occupied before, but Orlo silently moved you, taking the space you had laid motionless in, forcing you to his side as he spooned you. It was a little disorientating to swap sides, but you understood.

He was terrified.

Even as you could have fallen asleep, he was still awake behind you still, and you nestled your head free of the pillow to speak to him.

“Go to sleep.”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

He fell silent. You waited for him to speak, his long hair undone for once and brushing on your neck.

Finally, he spoke.

“I need you to promise you’ll be here when we wake up.”

“I will –”

“I thought you were dead,” he choked. “Every time I drifted off, I was convinced you’d be dead when I woke up. If I left the room, you’d be fucking dead.”

You pulled his hand into your nightgown, letting him press against your left breast until he could feel your heart. 

“I’ll be here.”

“I’m scared.” He break in his voice was devastating.

You let him hold you, still feeling your pulse, the rise and fall of your chest. He yawned again, against your neck.

“Orlo?”

“Yes?”

“I really do forgive you.”

He nodded, and you knew he had yet to forgive himself. You squeezed his hand, the one which rested on your heart, catching his attention.

“I love you.”

He sighed into you, hugging you tight.

Orlo refused to let you out of his grasp, even during sleep. His arm still pinned you to him when the pair of you awoke the next morning. His face was streaked with tears as he moved to start his day, no doubt fearing the Emperor’s wrath if he was late.

Fully dressed, he leant over you to say goodbye. He’d told you Catherine would visit later with a doctor, and you planned to be up and walking before then.

With a sweet kiss to the uninjured side of your forehead, he bid you goodbye.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he promised.

“I’ll be here. I promise.”


End file.
